WHY DON'T YOU PICK ONE UP . . .

Every now and then, Chris and I will share a cigar---not a big old Cuban or a Mr. Monopoly stogie, but a dainty little plastic-tipped White Owl or Muriel, and always outside the house.   We neither have any tolerance for cigarette smoke, and shrug ourselves through the clouds outside store doors, or passing on the street, and especially the reek on a smoker’s clothes close in a restaurant or movie---it’s just unpleasant to us.

But the crisp fragrance of a tiny cigar, out by the fire-pit on a chilly night, imagining all those after-raking evenings, with the piled leaves lit WAY over in the side of the field and perfuming the Fall air with that unmistakable closing-down-the-year scent---there’s a certain charm in that which we both enjoy, aside from the affectation of the moment.   I smoked cigarettes for several years WAY back when, and after that, a friend and I would share a little two-pack of Muriels on occasion.

And from the remembrance of a beautiful, classy school friend’s fragrance of Chantilly mixed with the hint of her Daddy’s cigar smoke---I always considered that one of the loveliest scents there was, as she rustled through life in silky blouses and taffeta petticoats and dark curls floating to her tiny waist.  The scent of Pall Malls in our house was a paltry substitute for that elegant scent.

Once, when Chris and I had smoked one in the car, we went into the Mall to stroll a few minutes before a movie, and I took a peppermint from a basket on a table display.   The lady at the table asked if we’d like to enter a drawing for a bus trip, and we won a “day-trip” which we chose to redeem with an evening at the Madrigal Feast at IU.   We always gave credit for that magical evening to the Muriel which started it all.

But WAAAAYYY back when, in my first married life, WAY before all my second singlehood, WAY before I met Chris, I occasionally smoked a little cigar, in the days when you COULD smoke one in company or at a party.   So, when my children’s Dad and I went on a big company convention to Washington, I smoked a cigar with Miss Edie Adams.

  

 

There was one big dinner event on the trip, in the enormous banquet room of The Sheraton, and the evening’s entertainer was Miss Adams, herself, known to us all from her television appearances and her cigar commercials.   She sang and performed, and later in the show, the stagehands wheeled out a tall lamp-post.   Applause from the audience, for we all recognized the familiar moment coming.   And when she asked if any ladies in the audience enjoyed smoking Muriels, a great cry went up from the several tables where our group sat, with shoutings and pointings, and the spotlight settling on ME.  

I was so flustered and it was such an unexpected thing---I was the youngest person in our whole group, wife of the junior draftsman, and not at all accustomed to taking much part in conversation, let alone a SPOTLIGHT.   And as she smiled and beckoned, and the cheering and applause got louder, two of the men got up and pulled out my chair, with me stumbling my way FAR FAR amongst the tables to the side-steps up to the stage.  And every step, all I could think of was the dress I was wearing---my Mother had made it for me special for that dinner event---a snug white long-sleeved MINI-DRESS, meant for an elegant evening, and not for LOOKING UP AT.  

I made my way across the stage---I remember being sort of blinded by the light following my every step, and holding one side of my skirt caught in my hand tight against the side, so as to maintain as much modesty and dignity as possible.  She welcomed me with a hug, offered me the Muriel, and lit us up as the music started.  She handed me a mike and started to sing, and some weird something happened---just as if she and I had been right there all afternoon in our rehearsal tights and hair rollers, we backed up to the lamp, each lifted a high-heeled foot behind us to the pole, and finished in spoken, breathy unison:   

 Why don’t you pick one up and SMOKE it some time? 

I’ve never before nor since been a part of such a strange, silly  congruence of events as that crazy falling-into-the-moment in such perfect time.   Smoke and bright light and such thunder of applause in that huge, echoing room---I guess that’s how it happens in Show Business, and I reckon I can say I’ve had MY Fifteen Seconds.

'SNOW WONDER

Last night was Sweetpea’s Christmas program at school---the auditorium filled with anticipation and talking and greetings to friends, as all the parents and Grands and small siblings took their seats in that pre-program hum-and-chatter like no other.   The lights flickered, and the children filed in and up onto those risers all across the stage in outfits to befit such a splendid occasion.

I can just see the send-home page now:   WEAR RED, WHITE OR GREEN, and those were represented in every scheme from solids to stripes to shirt-and-pants to dresses as sparkly as tinsel, and costumes straight off the Elsa/Anna wall at Party City.   Small girls on the front row felt the grandeur of their whirly-skirts as a couple of them spun and spun their little sequined selves before the music began---somehow the whirlers ALWAYS seem to get those front-row spots, whether the lineup is by height or need to slip out to the mike stand, and never fail to fulfill roles of such importance.  One little brunette in Sloane-fringed vest, skirt and boots continued an evening-long shimmy-shake which would have won her a Ten-from-Len in a Charleston contest. 

The jollity began with jinglings and clappings and bells and sleigh-rides, moved on into Snowmen on the Lawn, ran the gamut of Fa-la-las and Merry Measures, with none of the usual Wenceslas gravitas, and rounded out with a rousing twist version of Jingle Bell rock, with one lively little guy, front and center in a James Brown suit and spiked hair, just one beat off the rest, doing his own fabulous dance-and-spin worthy of an off-the-strip Vegas Revue.   Wow, what a program!

We applauded and whistled, and did that gather-up and rise so familiar at the end of small-town programs, blinking into the new light, scuffling for purses and dropped gloves, and making our way out into the lobby, where Sweetpea ran up to us, full of the joy of the night, and was encircled in a great poufy-coat group hug by us all.   We came out of our happy huddle beaming and pepped, and by gosh, we coulda slapped hands and gone for First Down and ten---flappy capes, Mammaw’s walker and all.

Our Girl always likes for us to “dress” for the program, so we got lots of smiles and stares from the little ones, with Chris in his Santa hat and beard, and me in my red cape and little gold glasses.   We smile a lot, too. 

It was sparkly-clear through the windshield on the drive over, with all the reds and greens and whites and yellows of traffic lights and tail-lights shining like a great path of colour laid down just for us, and when we came back out, after less than an hour, Oh, My!!   We were greeted by a swirling snowstorm like great wet cornflakes blowing past all the bright lights of the parking lot like a trip in Ten-Forward.  It was absolutely magical, like being in our own private snow globe which never needs a shake.   I put up my hood and we walked hand in hand WAY back to the car, like a stroll on a Summer’s day, just looking our eyes full of the wonder and the beautiful of it all.

It lasted almost all the way home, not sticking to the road, and was completely clear again when we got out of the car.  It was like a big special effect, just for us two, arranged as the Grand Finale to such a splendid evening.  If not for the program, we’d have not seen those few magical moments, nor experienced that stupendous marvel going on out there.  Don’t you just love how things just conflue sometimes, to make magic?

WHAT FOOLS WE MORTALS BE.

. . . and what artists and savants.

I don’t customarily go linking up to things that I stumble upon just browsing, but sometimes . . .

It’s simply paper, a vision, and a pair of magically-gifted hands.

Consider my mind blown---out the window and drifting far away, over about Ohio, with the last of the Autumn leaves.

BETTER LATE THAN . . .

We had our little Thanksgiving gathering last night, postponed and consulted on and dithered about with three sets of us, with our first group having to make what my Daddy always called a “flying trip,” when a visit was short.  The GA bunch came last Sunday, spent thee nights---I had great daytimes to spend with the Kiddos, while their parents went house-hunting a couple of hours away (hooray!  Closest they’ve ever lived).  We all gathered for our suppers together, and had a wonderful time, but no chance of settling in to a real Thanksgiving dinner together.

So we settled on last night, for the few of us “in town,” and little did we know . . .    You know how I’ve always liked the combination of pink and orange, especially at Thanksgiving, when it’s time to bring out the special old cloth and those fabulous clunky pink Fostoria goblets?   Or just in general, enhancing my new kitchen with a few Fall items all around this room? 

Well.  The niceties of that certainly did NOT predict nor include having a big old ORANGE extension cord wound all across kitchen counter, behind the sink, and down to the coffee-and-Bose corner, because suddenly THAT plug gave up the ghost as well.   And there we were, with things out of place, and all that cooking going on, and suddenly it dawned:   Whatever breaker that plug was on must deal with the FURNACE, as well, for we were getting colder and colder, and no warming chuff of the igniting, nor the cheery hum of the faithful fan to distribute the warm air.   A call to “our” electrician whose month of delays occasioned the taking-down and desperate putting-back-up of the kitchen cabinets before the GA contingent arrived brought him immediately to the house while all the good dinner smells of sage and onion and sweet potatoes wafted through the rooms.   Verdict:  sump’n sump’n “outside line”   “Power Company” “they will be right here” as he called it in.

And they were, with the verdict that they’d put us on their schedule for today.  So, as he had checked and metered and called, we asked him twice to sit and eat with us, but he’d already eaten, so we wavered.   You can't just SIT DOWN TO THANKSGIVING with another person in the house, even though they've declined, and are working, can you?  It just seem so not right, somehow. And we'd waited DAYS to have the special time together.  So when he left almost three hours after our scheduled mid-afternoon repast, we got out all the hot dishes and Caro quickly cooked the broccoli, Sweetpea grabbed her little page of History of Thanksgiving in Color and Prose to read to us after the Blessing, and we sat down.

And even with all the delay and chafing at the probably-dried-out everything, the meal was absolutely perfect.   The dressing was moist and delicious inside its lovely golden top and bottom crust, the sweet potatoes sweet and rich, with the marshmallows gently melted atop, the pineapple casserole still creamy beneath the Ritz-crumbs-fried-in-butter topping, and the TURKEY---oh that Turkey---simply delicious and tender and moist and still nice and warm, through some magical alchemy of prayer and hope and gritted teeth at all the delays.   It was the weirdest, nicest thing---the wait seemed to have created some sort of strange bubble of peace and perfection after we sat down, and everything seemed even to taste better than usual.

The sublime Pecan-Wood-Smoked Turkey:

 

Dressing:

Caro’s stir-fry/steamed Broccoli in Mother's Vegetable-Bowl-to-match-her-china:

Sweet Potato Custard:

Gravy with boiled eggs:

Pineapple Casserole, sweet little nuggets in a rich cheese sauce with Butter-sizzled Ritz crumbs atop:

Devilled eggs, before the compote of Cranberry was set into place. Actually the plates were half-served when Chris mentioned it, and I heard a little whisper of “It’s probably in the Microwave,” (family joke about the One Missed Thing), as I got it out of the fridge.

Sweetpea’s Mama’s wonderful Pink Salad:

Dessert was a fabulous, moist Pumpkin Roulade with a Ginger cream cheese filling, a gift made by a friend of Caro’s.

What a day, memorable in all sorts of ways, and you certainly deserve a big Turkey Sandwich, with all the trimmings, if you’re still here.

IT'S NOT THE DAY . . .

Several years ago Thanksgiving

I’ve just been roaming around looking at Thanksgiving posts on friends’ blogs, and it was a wonderful thing to see---all the preparations and polishings and things chosen carefully for the cherish of them and the guests who would use them.  I blush to tell that I simply imagined all the family hustle-bustles, the warm redolences of sage and pie, the light and the clink of silver on plate, for we had our pot-roast dinner on trays at the TV.   What an odd feeling.   The wonderful aroma of that pan of cushion-tender beef-in-rich-gravy perfumed the house for several hours in the afternoon, and the corn pudding, the pot of shiny pearls of Calrose, the Waldorf salad, all took a small time in the kitchen to prepare, and we just simply WERE in our dim cocoon, for Caro was sleeping upstairs to go to work, and all the departure of our rowdy crowd the day before was still ringing in the house, somehow, with remnants of fruit and yogurts and pretzel crumbs in the kitchen. 

We’ll gather with our few local Lovies on Sunday, when everyone’s schedule allows us the day.  There’s an enormous turkey in the fridge for Chris to put on the grill for a few hours, and most of the other necessaries for a small family dinner in the house.   We’ll gather and be thankful again. I always say that the holidays begin when you put together the Thanksgiving dressing.

And I’ll have the so-familiar moment once again, of these decades of Thanksgiving and Christmas preparation, of the MOMENT:

There’s something so just itself and so nostalgic about leaning over that big bowl of crumbled cornbread, minced onion and celery, fresh-ground black pepper and a little shake of poultry seasoning or several crumbled curls of sage, and inhaling that unmistakable aroma combination.  That humble, homey scent of brown crusty bread and onion and garden sage is a centuries-old memory-scent for Southern women, I think, carried on from sparse black skillet to Pyrex to le Creuset, with the meaning and taste intact for all the intervening years.

Then there will be the laying of the table, the setting out and arranging, for a celebration small but of great import---the thankfulness for all our blessings, and for those gathered with us and the ones far away, but always in our hearts.